


What You Tried To Say To Me

by reason_says



Category: Impressionists RPF
Genre: Incest, Mental Instability, Religious Themes & References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-24
Updated: 2008-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reason_says/pseuds/reason_says
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of his ranting, Vincent reaches an inescapable conclusion. Whether Theo can escape it is another matter entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Tried To Say To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have absolutely no claim on either of these men, nor delusions thereof, and I'm about as certain as I can be that they weren't sleeping together. Also, I am making no money from this.
> 
> Warnings: [Consensual, of age] Incest. Crazy. Religiosity.
> 
> Notes: Characterisation based on a combination of the Letters and the movie _Vincent & Theo_.

**What You Tried To Say To Me**  
"It's not that they're even connected, of course, but what if they were? Can you imagine? No, of course you can't, even I barely can. It's just that there's a connection just begging to be made there, because what is Hell but the total absence of God, the point in fact, and what is the Garden but the total presence? So, what if we're missing the point entirely, and Hell is not the opposite of Heaven but the opposite of mankind's origins? Heaven was originally a human-free place! He created the Heavens and the Earth, with the angels in one and, well, nothing in the other. But humans were created from the dust of the Garden, the very essence of Earth, so they're joined to it now, from their very roots. There's something there about the roots of the tree of life, but that's not the point."

I'm not sure there ever was a point, honestly. There rarely is, when he gets like this. He rants at me about one aspect of religion or another, but I get the feeling he'd be saying these same things whether or not I were sitting in the chair across from him. I'm not sure if it makes him more or less sane that I'm here listening to him. He speaks as if to the air, not to any solid audience, arguing with himself.

It goes without saying he's in one of his manic moods.

He wasn't always like this, you know. He's never been what you'd call exactly standard, but he wasn't always this obvious about it. His extremes are farther apart, these days, and they stay separate longer. This mood has been constant since I got here, at least, and that was nearly a month ago.

It's not always ranting, of course. That would be too predictable. He rages at seemingly random aspects of everyday life, as if the birds are deliberately spiting him by flying past the trees. He'll slash through paintings because he's decided one shade doesn't quite fit the mood he was aiming for, then leave the paint-laden shreds where they fall. The floor of his flat is rapidly filling with strips of canvas from a million paintings that looked identical to anyone but him. By which, I suppose, I mean me.

He sits back down, his urge to rant exhausted for the moment. He grins. "It's all academic, of course, since perception is what we make of it." Oh God, maybe I was wrong. I stand up, hurriedly, to cut off the next session before it begins.

"Do you feel all right, Vincent? You look flushed." He does, a natural result of his verbal and emotional exertions, but his forehead when I touch it is much hotter than that would warrant. "You're burning up!"

He pushes my hand away. "I am not. How could I be? It's freezing in here, why d'you think I've been walking around?"

I decide not to answer that. "Vincent, it's not cold in here, not in the least. What's more, whether or not you think you are, you're burning. And don't even start with me about perception, because yours is inherently jeopardised by the fact that you have a fever."

He laughs. "My perception isn't subject to temperature."

"Don't start with me, Vincent." I grab his arm, and he's surprisingly willing to be pulled out of his chair. "You're going to lie down for a bit. Whether or not you think you're sick, you've had quite enough exercise for one day."

He freezes. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child, Theo. I'm not insane. I'll lie down when I want to." He pauses. "It just so happens that I want to." He jerks his arm out of my grip and walks to his bed, methodically pulling back and straightening the covers before lying flat on his back, arms laid crosswise over his chest. I know he's mocking me, but at least he's not exerting more effort than he always has.

His eyes are closed, but I know he'll open them at any moment and start talking again. I am not disappointed.

"It's interesting, that."

He often does this. He'll begin as though we've been having a continuous conversation and his opening gambit is merely the next step. Uncharacteristically, he waits, glancing over at me. I sigh and take the bait.

"What's interesting?"

"What you said earlier, about how I'm burning whether I like it or not."

I know where this is going, but it's too late to stop it. I'm not sure I could ever be early enough to stop him, honestly. Once his points, such as they are, become vocal, they've usually been stewing in his head long enough for him to have formed a full thesis around them, and he rarely stops before delivering the whole thing. I'd hoped to avoid another of these today, but as it is I sigh, pulling a chair up near the bed.

"Because, you see, that's always the way of it. Once we're damned, we're going to Hell no matter what. Burning, thus, being a euphemism. Or is it? Hell, after all, implies burning, so perhaps it's a synecdoche? Or would that be metonymy?" He pauses to contemplate, not that I have any idea what he's talking about. "I don't think it matters. It's figurative all the same, which is why it's funny that you told me I was burning. I might be, and just unaware, but then what's the point of Hell? Surely punishment isn't punishment without the knowledge of the punished, but what if this is just a very specific form of punishment? Maybe Dante was right, and Hell is more specific than we know. More specific than _he_ knew. I might be living in my own personal Hell, getting my heart cut out every night and carrying on whistling in the morning."

It amazes me, sometimes, that he's capable of this sheer torrent of words. His intensity is nothing new, but this tendency to talk until he grows tired is a new one. He used to restrain himself to short, angry sentences, getting as much out in as few words as he could manage, as if his time was limited and he wanted to make as much of an influence as he could. Now, though he talks of nothing that is not laced with omens of death, he speaks as if he has all the time in the world to figure out exactly what he thinks. Perhaps, though I hesitate to voice the thought, he truly believes himself dead, and my presence some aspect of whatever Hell he's invented for himself. That doesn't offend me, though it seems as though it should. It's not true, in any case, and I can't be sure he even thinks it. I don't think _he's_ sure of what he's thinking.

He sits up, suddenly, moving so that he's facing me with his legs crossed under him. "At the same time, if I'm already burning, why are you here? What have I done that should send you here with me? Thoughts are one thing, but actions are another thing entirely, and there've been none of those. Have there?" He shakes his head, amazed at himself. "Ingenious! Send me to Hell, but make me forget why I'm here. All the more punishment that way, not knowing if there was ever anything to warrant it. A fine persecution, to be certain."

This is too much. "Vincent, you're not in Hell. There's no reason you should believe me, you're so caught up in your own thoughts, but I am telling you, as your brother and your friend, that this is not Hell. It's Paris."

He starts to laugh. "What's the difference?" His laughter goes on for far too long, congratulating himself on his ridiculous and untrue joke, and I can't stand it anymore. I stand up, barely noticing as my chair topples behind me, and take the few steps necessary to clap my hand over his mouth. His breath is hot against my palm, and his laughter quiets. He meets my eyes and nods, and I take my hand away, barely resisting the urge to wipe it on my trousers.

"I will do anything I can to help you, Vincent. That's why I'm here. It's why I've _been_ here." I want to pick my chair up and sit in it rather than towering over him as he sits on the bed, but turning my back on him probably isn't the best idea right now. Not that he'd hurt me, but that he'd take the break in eye contact to mean he can start talking again, and I don't want to deal with that. "I can't help you if you don't at least make an effort to listen to yourself! You're not in Hell, because you haven't done anything to get there. Your thoughts, whatever those might be, aren't enough to damn you forever, even you can't think that! You haven't done anything, and you won't without knowing it. At least remember that much, can't you?"

To my great surprise, he seems to take my request seriously. When he speaks, it's measured, slow, as if he's actually thinking things out as he goes along rather than spouting whatever enters his head. "I don't know if it can be said that I wouldn't do it without knowing,. Men do strange things in dreams all the time, and I really don't have any way of knowing what I might have done under their influence. Unless you told me, which I somehow think you would. I do usually remember my dreams, though, and there were none that would give me the impression I'd done anything outside them.

"But… I'd never thought of this before, but it's true." His eyes light up. "Of course, it's the basic principle! I could, possibly, do it without remembering, but I could never do it without God wanting me to. Not that He would force me, of course, not either way, but He's still responsible for everything that happens, no matter how actively, so if I'm not meant to do things, it's a fact that I don't do them. In which case, the burning is immaterial, because I couldn't have helped it!"

He stands up, laughing with true joy, and grabs my hand. "Thank you. I can think all I want, and that's my own will, but acting on it is out of my hands." He nods, seemingly satisfied with his madness, and walks to the window. He leans out over the street, fingers pressed to the window ledge as if he would fall without a firm hold. Maybe he would – after all, he knows his sense of balance better than I. Assuming, of course, he has a hold on any of his senses at all.

After what seems like an eternity, during which I pick up my chair and kick a few canvas shreds under the table, he pulls his head back in and turns around. He takes a deep breath, nods firmly to himself, and steps deftly around the piles of canvas to stand in front of me. His face is no longer nearly as flushed as it had been earlier, and I wonder if perhaps his fever was truly nothing more than exertion. I wouldn't put it past him to drive himself sick. He looks me in the eye, deliberate and solemn.

"I'm going to try to do something now. I won't be surprised if it doesn't work, but if I don't try I'll never know that it's possible. Just remember, whatever happens, it's God's will. All right?"

It's only due to my confusion that I nod, and I immediately regret my instincts when he curls a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me in for a kiss.

It's not a proper kiss, of course. For one thing, I'm determinedly not participating. For his part, he makes no effort to move beyond a simple pressure, and I wonder, his madness no doubt catching, if he's forgotten his theory about God being the only one who can stop him. His frenzied protestations of guilt make more sense now, if nothing else.

Finally regaining my nerve, if not my senses, I jerk away, ducking to escape his hand on my neck. Immediately he pulls back, hands fisted at his sides, lips drawn tight. He stares at me for a long beat, and I'm perfectly content to stare back, baffled. When he speaks, his voice is clipped and strained. "Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm sure you have other things to be doing. I must be keeping you from them. Goodbye." He makes an abortive gesture toward the door, and turns around before he can see if I've followed his emphatic suggestion. He heads back to the bed, shaking out the covers before lying down and pulling them over himself. It's the middle of the day.

I still can't do anything but stare. In the space of three minutes I have been bored to incoherency by a pseudo-religious ramble, kissed by my brother, and told in no uncertain terms to leave so that the aforementioned brother can bury himself under blankets. I think I'm owed a little time to think.

I don't leave the flat. The way he is right now, who knows what he'd do if he truly thought I'd abandoned him? I may not understand his actions, but when do I ever? That's no reason to hurt him. I move to the window. Who knows, perhaps it will give me the clarity it apparently gave him. If I were Vincent, I would doubtless start a discussion about the rhetorical link between windows and clarity, the glass being literally clear, but I'm not him, so I don't. I rest my head against the windowpane, horrified at myself. I've started imitating him, even in mockery.

But then, why should it be otherwise? I'm only surprised it's taken this long. He's always been the dominant force in my life, in our family. He's my older brother, after all, and I'm reliably assured that there are archetypes to be followed. Someone watching our interaction might think him rude, talking at me, or at himself, without letting me get a word in edgewise, but nothing could be further from the truth. When he's talking, I don't even try to get words in edgewise. I don't want to! As insane as many of his ideas are, the way he constructs them is still fascinating. Half the time spent listening is also spent studying him, trying to follow his unfollowable leaps of logic. One might think that would drive me mad, but it's the way things have always been.

The world, our friends and associates, always tend to see me first. Vincent is my brother, I'm never his. Theo and Vincent, always. We've adjusted to that, times being what they are, but at home we're always Vincent and Theo. What else could we be, when so much of my life is spent caring for him? He comes first, always, even when I wish he didn't.

It's not that I'm selfless, far from it. I do wish that he would take responsibility for me, for once. Or at least for himself. Most of my meagre salary goes to supporting him, and it can't be said that I never feel like complaining. But without me, what would he do? He's bad enough when I'm not with him, I can't imagine his state if I stopped supporting him. I shudder, and lift my head from the window. No, I could never do that. That much is certain.

I turn to look at him on the bed, but there's not much to see. He's completely covered by his blankets, huddled against the wall. Then I realise. God's will. When I pulled back, he thought God was rejecting him just as I was. Oh, Vincent. Whatever he told himself to get up the nerve to do it, he must have convinced himself that it truly was God's will that he kiss me. No wonder he's barricaded himself now.

What I can't understand is what would have possessed my brother, so concerned with religion, to have those sorts of thoughts in the first place. That must have been what he was talking about, after all, thoughts without actions, and no wonder! Normal people don't act on those sorts of thoughts. Of course, he's far from normal, but the question remains. How does his religious fervor allow for that sort of thing? I've long ago accepted that I'm not exactly what Pa told us God wanted, but Vincent? Even after rejecting the Church, he can't stop talking about it. Is it all just rhetoric? Talking about ideas in order to cheapen them? Or has he truly talked himself out of morality?

I shake my head. That's just it, isn't it? Morality has nothing to do with this. With us. We're all we have, anymore, and I'm not going to let anything get in the way of that. Not even this. If I were a stronger person, I never would have pulled away in the first place. I thought he must be mad, must be testing me, must have figured me out and decided to… what? Kiss me to prove I want to kiss him? I can't think that of him. What he did, he did for himself, and that's not selfishness. That's just the way he is. He does things for himself, and I do things for him, and that's the way it's always been. Why should a lifetime of habits stop now?

I look out the window once more, searching for whatever he found earlier to give him confirmation. There is nothing. I smile and shake my head. I love my brother, but he is the most stubborn person I've ever met. There was no confirmation, because he wasn't looking for any. He already had it. What he needed was strength, which is what I need now as well. I turn back toward him. He hasn't moved.

"Vincent?"

He curls further into himself, or so I gather from the arrangement of the blankets. Oh, Vincent. I walk back over to the bed and kneel by the side. No further movement is forthcoming, but that's not surprising. I reach out to touch where I think his shoulder is, but stop.

"Vincent, look at me." He doesn't, of course. "I expected better of you, really. Raging yes, but sulking? Because I needed a few minutes to figure out what you'd just pushed on me? That's unreasonable even for you." This time I don't pull back from touching him, and he shudders. "If you won't look at me, at least listen. God's will, remember? If I were meant to leave, I would have left. And maybe you think you're not meant to listen, but as I see it, it's your turn."

His answering laughter is harsh, but a better reaction than I've gotten yet.

"I listen to everything you say, Vincent. Even the parts that don't make sense, and God knows that's the majority. But you know better than most people that words and actions are different things, and when you make the switch you need to give people time to adjust! If you ordered me out every time I didn't understand what you were saying, you'd most likely never see me. You're a hard man to understand, and you know that, but you give yourself too little credit."

A flurry of motion, and the blankets have been pushed back. "Don't lie to me, Theo. Don't tell me things because you think I want to hear them, you're better than that!" He's screaming by the end, but I refuse to move.

"I don't do that. What's more, you _know_ I don't do that. When have I ever patronised you?"

He laughs. "Well, there's the little matter of all the money you send me," but I glare at him and he stops. Now is not the time for word games.

"If that's the best you have, you must know it's not true! I'm not lying, Vincent." At this point, of course, there's only so much I can say. He's already proved his point about actions, so, as always, I take my lead from him.

This time it's he who breaks the kiss, looking at me with lust and terror in his eyes. He searches my face, but I keep my eyes fixed on his, and soon enough he relaxes. The lust, however, is still there, and a quick glance downward shows that however guilty he might feel about this, part of him has definitely gotten over that. His gaze follows mine, noting that, for my part, I'm hardly disinterested, and something in his eyes sparks.

He must see something on my face, though, because he stops, looking at me very seriously. "You're my brother."

I nod, carefully.

"And I'm yours."

"Yes, you are. What are you on about?"

"Are you sure about this?"

A deep breath, and I twist so I'm over him, straddling his midsection. His cock jerks in his trousers, even more obvious now that it's pressed against me, and I grin, leaning down so my forehead is nearly touching his. There's only one thing I can say that will convince him not to stop again, and I say it.

"Vincent, if you keep stalling, I am going to leave this flat and not come back until you've regained your senses. I will stay with my wife and _never have sex with you, ever_. Do you want that?"

His eyes widen in shock, and just for a moment the terror returns to his gaze, before he starts laughing. "You know how to make a point, don't you?" He shakes his head, still chuckling. "Maybe you should have been the preacher, eh?"

"If I were a preacher, Vincent, this would not be anywhere close to happening right now." I punctuate the statement by grinding down against him, and he gasps. "Now. Are _you_ sure about this? Answer carefully."

He nods frantically. "Yes, God yes, Theo, trust me, I'm sure."

"Good to know." I roll off him, stifling a groan as our cocks brush through our trousers. As soon as he's free, he shifts, pulling me with him so that we're sitting flush against the wall that serves as his headboard.

"Are you–?" He gestures with his head, and I catch his meaning.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." He grins, and at the sight of his mercury-stained teeth I remember. "Wait. You?"

He laughs, nods, and I kiss him with relief. Not that infection is an issue, not when we carry the same disease, but lesions have an amazing capacity to kill a mood. Further proof for Vincent, if he thinks of it, that God must have willed this. The odds of synchronous remissions are surely slim, syphilis seeming to do its best to ruin as many lives as possible. His verbosity is surely contagious, or I wouldn't be thinking this way, this _much_ , while my brother, bent as always on doing as much in as little time as possible, unbuttons my trousers and moves toward the foot of the bed.

"Wait." I reach out, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Have you–?"

He glances irritably up at me, clearly conveying _Of course, you idiot_ , and keeps moving. Fair enough. It's not like I haven't taken Andries to my bed more than once, a fact Jo, oddly, seems to accept. I doubt she'd be so accepting of this, should she find out, but there's no reason she should. At which point rationality ceases, because Vincent has unbuttoned my trousers and wrapped a hand around my cock.

I manage to keep still, letting him go at his own pace, but when he ducks his head and meditatively licks a stripe up the side of my prick I can't help but buck my hips, earning a pinch to my thigh in retaliation. No matter – I know he won't stop – but I try to control myself.

Just as that thought connects, control becomes extremely difficult. He really has done this before. At least, so I'm assuming, because otherwise he's a natural, and I've never met anyone, man or woman, who was a genuine natural at what he's doing now. My head falls back against the wall and I clutch the blanket desperately as he swallows around my length, but I don't know how much longer I can last. I've thought about this happening, of course I have, but I'd never imagined anything like this.

With effort, I look down, locking eyes with him, and that sight alone is nearly enough to undo me. Vincent would laugh at me if he could hear my thoughts, but the fact is that as connected as we've always been, I've never felt closer to him than now, with him kneeling between my legs and his mouth on my cock. I raise a hand to stroke his hair and end up gripping, not guiding so much as reassuring his movements.

A few more strokes, combined with his wandering hands, and I can't hold back any longer. I let out a cry, hands scrabbling at the blanket and head knocking against the wall, managing to spare half a thought on the hope that I warned him in time.

I recover my senses in time to see him spit on the floor and wipe his mouth with his sleeve. He slides up the bed, settling next to me, and I lean my head on his shoulder.

"D'you want me to–?"

"No, that's, er," he gestures. "That's taken care of." Sure enough, the front of his trousers is soaked through. I close my eyes for a beat. I've just reached fulfillment myself, and really don't need to think about how much it turns me on to know that he suffered his own _petite mort_ just from bringing about my release. I tilt my head toward him and he meets it hungrily, kissing me as though he'll never have another chance. I want to tell him that's not remotely the case, but I'm a bit preoccupied.

Finally he breaks away, still grinning, and leans his head on my shoulder in turn. We sit there for a beat, until he breaks the silence.

"Theo?" His voice is low, uncertain.

"Hm?"

"Why would God will this for us?"

I shrug. Do we honestly have to talk about this now? Oh, it's Vincent. Of course we do. "You can accept that everything is determined, or you can question _why_ things are determined. The two don't really mesh."

"But what if it wasn't willed? What if we chose to do this?" His face has become drawn, a worried look in his eyes that I hardly ever see. "Theo, what have we done? You! Why did you go along with it? I told you to stop, you should–!"

I cut him off with a kiss, and his argument loses momentum. "And I told you, I was doing it just as much for myself as for you. There was no question of stopping, not once we'd started. Surely you know that!"

He looks down and shakes his head, but he's grinning. "There's a reason no one talks about effability, I guess. If nothing else, He must have known about my thoughts."

"How long?"

"What?"

I fix him with a look that I hope conveys that I know he knows exactly what I'm talking about. "How. Long?"

"I don't know. Forever." He plucks at the blanket. "It wasn't a sudden thing, you know. It was gradual. You're my brother, so obviously I already love you because of that, and then you're the only one who's ever actually believed in me–"

"That's not true! Pa–"

"Pa was training me to do exactly what he wanted me to do. Working at the dealers' was fine, and preaching was fine, but he wouldn't speak to me at all while I was a teacher. You're the only one who kept in touch with me."

"Oh."

I hadn't known that.

We sit in silence for a bit, and I take the time to think – something I hadn't really been able to do while otherwise occupied. It doesn't really surprise me that this happened. We've always been closer to each other than to any of our other siblings, and far closer, at that, than any brothers I know. I'm not saying it was inevitable, God's will aside, but thinking about it, most of our lives do seem to have been leading us here. No, it doesn't surprise me that this happened. What surprises me is that it took us both so long to get it.

"What about you?"

"What?"

He rolls his eyes and pokes my side. "How long, idiot."

"Oh. I don't know, about the same as you, I suppose. Roughly forever."

He nods solemnly. "That sounds about right." We look at each other very seriously for a moment, before cracking.

"We're completely ridiculous. You know that, don't you?"

"Thank you, Theo, I hadn't noticed." He scoots down the bed, half-crawling over me before standing up and stretching. He looks down at his stained trousers with something akin to disgust, and heads for the bureau, rummaging through the already half-open bottom drawer and pulling out a pair that may or may not be clean, but are at least more likely to be dry. He inspects them casually, batting at an imaginary bit of dust, before pulling off his current trousers and replacing them with these. The whole affair is carried out with a half-grin on his face, as if there's some joke even he's not quite getting. This is becoming something of a habit for him. Ask him what he's laughing at, and he's just as likely to stare blankly as to tell you, and more likely still to answer, "I don't know."

Having completed his miniature ritual, he comes back to bed. I've moved closer to the side wall so he doesn't have to climb over me, and he immediately settles in, throwing an arm around my shoulders as he sits down. As is quickly becoming our habit, we sit in silence for a few minutes before he speaks.

"Are you going to tell Jo?"

"What? Oh." I haven't thought of her since kissing him, but I suppose I ought to. "No, that couldn't end well."

He huffs a laugh. "You're not wrong. Taking her brother to bed isn't quite the same as taking _your_ brother, I suppose."

I shoot him a look. How does he know about that? He's oddly perceptive when he thinks people aren't watching. "Yes, there is rather a difference."

He nods, pauses. "Theo?"

"Hm?"

"Why did you never say anything?"

"About what?" I know what he means, of course, but I want to hear him say it.

"About…" he gestures, "this. You said forever, so why didn't you say anything? Why did it take me kissing you for you to do anything about it?"

That's a remarkably good question, and I'm not sure I have an answer. With luck, his technique of talking until he comes up with an answer will serve me.

"I suppose I never thought anything could come of it, anything good at least. You must admit the chances were slim that you'd return my feelings, and if I'd said anything, done anything, you might have hated me forever. You're sort of all I have, Vincent. I didn't want to jeopardise that for the sake of, what, some fling? I couldn't stand having you hate me for loving you. It was easier to see you with your whores than to not… not to see you at all."

Hm. Apparently I have a better idea of my motives than I had thought. But he's shaking his head, and I immediately worry that I've said the wrong thing, that he'll hate me after all.

"This isn't a fling, Theo. I don't do flings."

I laugh. "I'm sorry, but I beg to differ."

He waves a hand irritably. "Not those, those aren't flings. When money's involved, no one's lying about the outcome. That's not a fling, that's a business arrangement for the health. No, flings aren't healthy for anyone, and I don't do them." He pauses. "You shouldn't either."

"What, with you, or in general?"

"Either! Neither. Both. You haven't yet, why start now?"

"Oh, what I have with Andries, you think that's not a fling?"

He rolls his eyes. "Not unless your eyes are more skilled at lying than your mouth. And not unless his are better still."

Fair enough, but that's not the point. "So if this isn't a fling – a statement I'm not questioning, might I add – what is it?"

He moves away slightly, turning to face me properly. "If you have to name it, it's not anything. Haven't I taught you that by now? Nothing perfect can be named. Why do you think the saints talk about being struck speechless? There are things too pure to talk about."

This is hardly pure, I want to tell him, but he's moved off on another tangent, disproving tenfold his own point about speechlessness. I'll point out the contradiction later, but for now I'm content to watch him in his element. For now.

Oh, look at that. Apparently kissing makes him stop talking. I'll have to remember that one.


End file.
